


Inside Out

by eeyore9990, qafmaniac



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Parent/Child Incest, Stiles Stilinski is a Tease, Underage Masturbation, no parent/child until Stiles is over 18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 16:55:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1751891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990, https://archiveofourown.org/users/qafmaniac/pseuds/qafmaniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first, Stiles just does it to watch his dad get flustered and trip over his own words, because it's kinda funny.  His dad's always been pretty laid back and self-assured.  To see him flipped inside out when Stiles says or does things that are possibly, maybe, a tiny bit innuendo-laden, well.  He gets a kick out of it.</p><p>But it also brings life back into his dad's eyes.  A spark that Stiles thought was buried with his mom is suddenly glinting in his dad's eyes again and that?  Hell.  That's kinda awesome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inside Out

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [TWBigBang on Livejournal](http://twbigbang.livejournal.com). All the lovely art you see here? Courtesy of [qafmaniac](http://archiveofourown.org/users/qafmaniac). Shower your praises upon her!
> 
> For the art/soundtrack masterpost (YES, MUSIC OMG!), go visit qafmaniac at: [livejournal](http://qafmaniac.livejournal.com/) or [dreamwidth](http://qafmaniac.dreamwidth.org/307136.html).
> 
> Beta'd by the incomparable [Leela](archiveofourown.org/users/Leela), without whom my fics have no feelings.

For Stiles, it starts the day his dad shoves a box of Kleenex in his hands ('with aloe!' the box proclaims in lurid green letters) and clears his throat pointedly. The embarrassed flush on his dad's cheeks draws Stiles' gaze and his own blotchy skin has less to do with embarrassment than with the situation rapidly rising...in his shorts.

The muttered offer to buy Stiles some lotion nearly makes him cream his pants, honestly, and he knows it's weird, okay? He talks to Scott about it, and they both agree. It's definitely weird to pop a boner when your dad offers to smooth the way for your masturbatory practices, so to speak.

That should have been it. It really should have been. Hell, it shouldn't have even gone far enough to need to tell Scott about it, to be honest. But the thing about Stiles is, he's an asshole. He always has been. 

Like, he kicked his mom in the kidneys as a fetus on purpose. He's _that_ kind of asshole.

So at first, he just does it to watch his dad get flustered and trip over his own words, because it's kinda funny. His dad's always been pretty laid back and self-assured. To see him flipped inside out when Stiles says or does things that are possibly, maybe, a tiny bit innuendo-laden, well. He gets a kick out of it.

But it also brings life back into his dad's eyes. A spark that Stiles thought was buried with his mom is suddenly glinting in his dad's eyes again and that? Hell. That's kinda awesome.

When his dad gently sets him down on the couch one night when he's thirteen and a half to give him the sex talk, Stiles already knows it all. He has the _internet_. But the way his dad stutters and trips over his words is kind of adorable, so Stiles makes his eyes as wide as possible and asks a hundred bordering-on-inappropriate questions.

Or possibly wildly inappropriate.

~*~

Stiles stops his dad in the kitchen one morning, the light cutting through the blinds just enough to stab him in the eyes. Rubbing them, he walks up to his dad, his sleep pants falling low on his skinny hips, and yawns wide.

His dad curses and Stiles looks down to see that he's spilled some coffee over his hand, hot enough that it's left a bright red patch on his skin. Twisting on the cold water, Stiles grabs his dad's hand and shoves it under the faucet. As he watches the water splash over his dad's wrist, a wild idea occurs to him and he turns his eyes up toward his father's.

"Hey dad? What's fisting?"

His dad's face goes shock-white before blooming a mottled red and he chokes out a dozen half-formed syllables before he yanks his hand back. Turning to Stiles, he takes his shoulders in a firm — and dripping wet on one side — grip and says very seriously, "Son, where did you hear that term?"

Thinking quickly has never been a problem for Stiles, who blinks innocently and says, "I was reading my book for my English report last night and it said one character was fisting another character's shirt."

A huff of breath blows back Stiles' hair as his dad visibly deflates. "Okay, yeah. Okay. That's, uh, grabbing something in your fist. Like this." And then, without missing a beat, his dad gets a big handful of Stiles' shirt and drags him forward by it.

Stiles' spank bank fills to overflowing in that moment, and he just hopes like hell that his dad doesn't read anything into the way his breath suddenly catches in his throat. Or look down and see how his sleep pants are starting to tent in the front.

Now all he can think about is how easily his dad can move him around, the way his arm muscles bunch and shift when he grabs Stiles like this. The way the fine hairs on the back of his hand had darkened under the water. The width of his wrist and how it would look if…

Probably he shouldn't have spent the previous night researching fisting. Or asked his dad about it. Live and learn.

When he's fourteen and has finished a growth spurt that leaves him standing shoulder to shoulder with his dad, he spends his allowance on all the phallic food he can get his hands on. He buys Blow Pops suckers in economy-sized bags and works them with his lips and tongue so much that he develops sores in his mouth. 

Luckily, the sores are soothed by the icy sweetness of Bomb Pops (in Hulk green and Captain America red white and blue because the entire nation is swept up in Avengers mania). He slurps at them noisily from the moment his dad gets home from work until his dad evacuates the room in unseemly haste for a man of his years and profession. 

Stiles tries not to feel too smug about the fact that his dad has fled from him red-faced every night for a week. 

He gets even less circumspect about his nightly masturbation sessions until his father wanders around like a zombie, dark circles under his manic-looking eyes and hair always at least a bit flyaway.

~*~

He's sitting in math class, trying not to nod off, when the sound of sirens jolts him out of his daze. He frowns, looking out the window, and sees a couple black and whites and two Sheriff's department vehicles go racing past the school. His blood freezes in his veins because in a town this size, anything that warrants that much police presence will involve his dad.

When the bell rings, he's already got his things clutched to his chest and he bolts for the door before anyone else can even react. He's in the hall when he hears the words _cop shooting_ , and he whirls around frantically, trying to find the person who said that. But the hallway is crowded with kids and teachers, and he's blocking the flow of traffic.

A few muttered curses and a shoulder-bump with enough force to bruise has him spinning to the side of the hall and into a bank of lockers. But it also clears his mind enough to have him turning on his heel and sprinting toward the library. 

The computers are ancient and slow, but someone left one of them open and logged in, so it only takes a moment for him to pull up a browser. Except Google is down, the internet radio is down, and he can't connect to the local news site at all. 

Stiles shoves his hands in his hair and looks up. A strangled scream leaves him when he sees a note tacked to the wall in like twelve point font informing students that there will be network downtime today between 10am and 3pm. 

The tardy bell rings then, and Stiles is already late, so he gathers up his stuff again and heads to the office. If nothing else, they have a phone there. He can, hopefully, call his dad's office phone, or dispatch, and see what's going on.

But when he approaches the office, through the door-less entryway he hears the secretaries talking about an officer-involved shooting and he freezes, his books sliding from his numb grasp. He can't make his feet move and his breath is getting thin, raspy. He can feel his heart pumping faster and faster until his vision goes splotchy, and then he's falling to his knees.

A voice yells at him, the noise muted through the sound of his own panic, and he struggles to look up. Coach Finstock is crouched in front of him and his lips are moving, saying something Stiles can't understand. All he can hear is the echo of the secretary's words.

_Officer-involved shooting._

It's all his nightmares rolled into one and set on fire. He can't think about anything but how tired and worn out his dad looked that morning as he got ready for work. Tired and worn out because Stiles couldn't stop teasing him. Because Stiles thought it was funny and exhilarating to think about his dad on the other side of his bedroom wall listening to him beating off.

"Dad," he manages to gasp through his panic attack. Before he knows it, there are three more adults in the hall with them and someone must realize who he is. The Sheriff's son. 

The nurse wraps a blanket around him, leads him to her office, and has him lay down while she sees what she can find out. The news is good; his dad was in the office doing paperwork when the shooting happened, and the officer who _was_ involved is in good condition.

But that doesn't stop Stiles from having nightmares about it all going the other way. Of his dad really being shot because he's too exhausted to react when some random speeder pulls out a gun.

Stiles doesn't jerk off for two weeks, and even when he does, he's quiet as he's ever been. His dad's clear eyes and healthy color make him feel more secure than all the body armor in the world.

He's fifteen and in ninth grade when he finds it. There's some project for history that he has to do that involves things like baby pictures, and when he's digging around the attic for the old, loose photos—no way is he going to mess up the carefully pasted photos in his baby book—he runs across a box of old tapes, all of them labelled with his name except one that just says _John—1995._

He takes the whole box back to his bedroom, along with the dusty camcorder. He gets everything he needs off the videos of himself as a baby, then slides the tape with his dad's name on it into the camera and pushes play.

Tears immediately clog his throat because it starts playing on his mom's face, and it's a version of her he doesn't remember. She's young and beautiful and vibrant, laughing into the camera and saying something he can't catch because the tape has apparently been warped a little with age. 

The picture goes fuzzy for a minute, and then resolves again on his dad, and Stiles can hear them now, can hear his mom teasing his dad about something as his dad ducks his head and blushes, putting one hand over his face in a manner that is so very eerie. It's exactly the reaction Stiles gets when he's done something to make his dad regret his very existence.

Stiles clears his throat softly, shifting in his seat, because his dad… well, it's not exactly his dad on the screen. This is from before Stiles was born, when his dad was in the Army, and young, and… His dad is incredibly hot now, in a DILF sort of way, but back then he was young and built, with his hair cut to Army regs and shirts that stretched a bit obscenely over his chest. Even his arms were ridiculous, all lean muscle and mouth-watering forearms.

 _"Claudia,_ " Dad whines from the camera, peeking through his fingers. The sound of his voice snaps Stiles back to himself. _"What if someone sees?"_

But his mom just laughs, a full-bellied sound that makes something clench up in Stiles' stomach. He remembers that sound.

 _"John, you idiot,"_ she says, and Stiles can feel his own lips pulling up into a wide grin at the exasperation in her tone. _"Who the hell do you think is going to even_ look _for it?_ "

_"I don't… I just—"_

_"You just wanna weasel out of it. Tough titty, Sergeant Stilinski. If you have to fly off to the other side of the world for six months, you're going to leave me something to remember you by!"_ The camera swoops wildly, showing the wall and then focusing in on some really atrocious brown carpeting before he hears his mom giggle and say, _"Whoops, forgot about the camera."_

 _"You really want me to do this?"_ John asks, looking dubiously at his wife instead of into the camera. _"I'm not exactly a porn star here._ "

_"Baby, you're all the porn star I need. Now, strip and show me your dick."_

Stiles gasps and drops the camcorder when his hand goes lax in shock. Thankfully he's sitting at his desk, so it just clatters to the wooden surface before tipping over and perching at a tilt onto the viewscreen. He breathes out a curse and picks it up, rubbing at a visible ding on the surface of the ancient camera before looking back into the view-finder to see his dad slowly stripping for the camera, occasionally rolling his eyes as Stiles' mom shouts filthy encouragement.

Jesus Christ, things he did not need to know about his mom.

But then his mom goes silent as his dad gets down to his boxers and stands there with his thumb tucked into the waistband, looking young and vulnerable and unsure. Claudia must do something because suddenly he smiles and it's full of dark promises and hooded eyes. Stiles swallows hard and spreads his legs beneath the desk, feeling his cock plump up in his jeans.

John leaves his boxers on as he turns and crawls slowly up onto the bed, and Stiles lets out a high-pitched whine when he sees the flex of his dad's ass under the thin cotton. A bead of sweat develops above Stiles' lip, and he can hear the rattle of his own breath breaking the silence of the room.

There's the unmistakable sound of a strangled cough right beside the microphone, and that breaks Stiles out of his own haze of lust long enough for him to thumb open the button on his pants and drag his zipper down far enough to free his cock from the slit of his own boxers.

John sits back against the headboard of a bed Stiles doesn't recognize and rubs his hand over the front of his boxers slowly, maintaining eye contact with the camera the whole time. _Shit._ And he thought he wasn't a porn star.

When his dad pushes the waistband of his boxers down to just under his balls, Stiles lets out a shocked sound and has to damn near strangle his cock to keep from coming. Claudia, bless her, zooms the camera in on it, the picture going fuzzy for a second until the autofocus kicks in. Then, it's all cock all the time.

 _"Fuck,"_ he hears his dad mutter, and the sound is full of dark secrets. _"Baby, you need to stop doing that or I'm going to blow my load way too soon."_

A light, airy chuckle sounds from his mom, who whispers, _"Yeah, but you know how I like having things in my mouth."_

Stiles honestly doesn't know why he's still listening to this — or at least watching it with the volume up — but those words just drive his arousal higher because now all he can think about is getting his _lips_ around that thick, flushed cock. His mouth waters and he pops two fingers in, just to satisfy a little bit of that craving. Unfortunately, it's the hand he was using to squeeze the base of his dick, and it tastes all musky and … well, like dick.

So when his dad goes back to slowly jacking himself, reaching down occasionally to roll his balls in his hand, Stiles has the visual, the sound, _and_ the flavor.

By the time John looks directly into the camera, his head tilted back and chest heaving, and whispers, _"I love you,"_ just before he bites his lip and comes all across his belly, Stiles is right there with him.

~*~

Needless to say, Stiles copies that shit to digital faster than the speed of light. He's got one copy buried in his hard drive, one saved in his email (he had to zip the file, but hey, he'll never lose it this way), and two more on thumb drives.

It's not the only porn he watches, but it's definitely his number one go-to when he wants to get off quickly.

Six months later, Scott gets bitten by a werewolf and his life vaguely slides sideways like melted cheese dripping off a nacho. _He's_ still human, though, and when he thinks about it long and hard—hur, _hard_ —he figures with all the extra weird shit in his life, his little personal daddy kink isn't the worst thing ever.

Lying to his dad for an entire year, _watching_ the gulf grow between them with each word from his mouth, or worse, with each damning silence, just might be. Stiles almost wants to kiss the Darach for forcing him into a position where he has to tell his dad.

And then his dad doesn't believe him and he's taken _anyway_ , and Stiles' life flips inside out.

~*~

Stiles kneels on the floor in front of the old sofa in the dining room, his fingers twitching as he smoothes salve over the rope burns on his dad's wrists.

"Stiles, kid, I'm fine. I'd rather we get your head looked at." Blunt fingers stroke through Stiles' hair and he leans into it. It's the sort of touch he'd taken for granted in the past, but had become markedly absent through all the bullshit of the last year. It's gentle and caring and makes something unfurl in his gut.

Squeezing his eyes closed, Stiles' lips part on a sigh as he revels in the moment, his thumb now motionless over the broken skin on his dad's wrist. Over the pulse point there. The pulse that stutters under his thumb as his dad's fingers slow their path through his hair.

His eyelids flutter open, and he's left staring into his dad's eyes. The air grows thick; Stiles is keenly aware of their relative positions, especially _his_. He's kneeling there, between his dad's spread thighs, inches from the dick that had starred in so many of his fantasies. He knows every inch of it. Has seen it, studied it countless times. Has watched, avidly, to see exactly how his dad likes to touch himself, what brings him the most pleasure.

His dad's fingers slip from his hair, and Stiles can't hide a loud, indrawn breath when his work-roughened palm scrapes over the shell of Stiles' ear, or the broken sound he makes when trigger-calloused fingers ghost across the nape of his neck. He knows his skin is flushed, blotchy. He can feel his chest rising and falling rapidly, keeping pace with his dad's. He can see the widening of his dad's pupils and knows his own are blown open with need. 

His stomach clenches and he can feel himself chubbing up in his pants, but somehow he's not worried. Instead he smiles, a small thing, just the very edges of his mouth tipping upward. He could push, he knows he could. He has the opportunity right now to take everything he wants.

But he doesn't reach for it. Because whatever this moment is, right now is not the time for it. Not when his dad has so much to think about, to consider. Not when his world has turned on its head and the monsters have come out of the closet and from beneath the bed.

Stiles has had a year to come to grips with their new reality. His dad deserves time to put himself back on an even keel.

Leaning forward, he presses a soft kiss to his dad's cheek, relishing the buzz of stubble against his lips. "I'm fine," he whispers against the weathered skin, like they're still having the same conversation they were having minutes — a lifetime — ago. 

They both know they're not.

Stiles has never been graceful, but somehow he manages to stand smoothly, not bothering to hide the way his pants are tented as he collects the first aid kit. His dad's hand lands on his forearm, and Stiles goes instantly still, relaxed and ready. 

"Stiles."

He can hear it all there in that tone: an acknowledgement, a question, a denial.

But Stiles is stubborn, and he's not losing the ground he gained, not now. Not tonight. So he just shrugs off his dad's hand and says, "Get some sleep. I know you have questions, but we'll talk about them tomorrow. It's been a long day." And it has. Suddenly, he feels about a thousand pounds heavier, like his feet can't possibly support his weight to get him up the stairs to his bedroom. 

He nearly has to crawl up the last few steps, but he finally makes it, falls heavily into bed and doesn't remember anything else other than the sucking darkness. 

They never talk about it.

The first time his dad crawls into bed with Stiles, it's to hold him while he screams through nightmares that are too real to wake from. Hellish dreams that trap him, inside each other, like a fucked up nesting doll of horrors that he can't escape.

And then his nightmares bleed out into his reality. He knows what it feels like, now, to twist the knife. To watch his friends die at his hand. To see himself standing there, face dark and manic with a thousand years of madness as his best friend sinks razor sharp teeth into his skin.

He watches it all, sick and twisted up inside, and when it's all over, he goes to a house that no longer feels like a home. Cameras watch him through the night, waiting for him to fall into a sleep that never comes.

He no longer touches himself; when his mind inevitably strays toward his father on the other side of the wall, he freezes and holds his hands up. Counts his fingers. Counts them again.

He can't forget, not even for a second, the devastation of his father's office. The shreds of the deputies' bodies. The blood that stained the floors.

How Scott's body parted like butter around a demon's sword.

How easily all that blood could have been his dad's. His friends have forgiven him; they say he tricked the ancient trickster and that's why his dad was safe. But he wonders. Because he can still feel it, all of it. 

And so he counts his fingers again.

~*~

He goes to South America, helps Scott and Chris Argent rescue Derek. Kills Kate Argent.

He's the only one she lets close; she underestimates the weak human. She should know better, really. Though maybe she couldn't possibly. How does a psychopath prepare for a teenaged boy who remembers the last millennia? Who remembers how to fight? 

She's not prepared for him to move in close, to dig fingers into her throat and rip it out. To stand over her as she gurgles, body heaving as it tries to repair the damage his weak human hands inflicted. Stiles breathes again, finally, when Chris stands beside him and unloads six rounds into her skull until the top of it is just _gone_ and there's nothing left in the shell that is the bottom half of her face.

Derek tries to thank him in his weird, closed-off way. Says maybe they'll both be able to sleep now.

Stiles flies back to Nevada, gets in his Jeep and is halfway home before he has to pull over and laugh. He laughs so hard he can't catch his breath and it feels a little like a panic attack. Really, though, it feels nothing like a panic attack.

But Derek was right. When he checks himself into the nearest motel, paid for on his dad's credit card, Stiles falls unconscious with Kate's blood crusted up under his fingernails.

~*~

A knock on the door wakes him, and Stiles stumbles across the room, bumping into the low table that some idiot designer placed between the creaky double-bed and the door. Stiles slides the chain on the latch—it's a motel off the interstate and he's a cop's son—before pulling the door open.

His dad is standing on the other side, hollow-cheeked and with bruises under his eyes like he hasn't slept in weeks. About how long it took Stiles and Scott to find Derek, then. 

Stiles winces, takes a second to consider whether or not to open the door, and then does it anyway because he has to leave eventually. Best to face the music now.

"I'm sorry," he says immediately, because he is. Now.

He barely has time to get the words out before his dad is pulling him into a tight embrace, his solid body trembling against Stiles. 

"What? Dad?"

"Don't ever do that again." The words are muffled against his neck, and the movement of his dad's lips as they form the words send a spark of heat through Stiles.

It's the first time he's felt anything beyond cold despair in months. He should be happy, but all he can think about is how he fucked up. Again. "I'm sorry," he repeats in a whisper, and his dad's arms tighten around him.

"You've got nothing to be sorry for, kid. Just, next time, fill me in? A scribbled note taped to the fridge doesn't quite cut it."

Stiles pulls away, eyes downcast and jaw clenched as he nods. _Stupid._ He should have known how worried his dad would be, but… "She sent Scott a video. It was… he was dying."

"Derek?"

"Yeah."

"And now? She still a threat?"

Stiles' glance flickers down to his hand. The blood had dried black; it looked like dirt under his nails now. "No. Mr Argent… I…" He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, nerves building up in his throat, stopping his words. 

"You took care of her?"

Stiles nods jerkily, still not meeting his dad's eyes. "Yeah."

"Okay. Well, then. You look like you haven't slept in weeks, and I know I haven't. Let's get some rest before we have to hit the road in the morning." 

His dad guides him by the shoulders until he's sitting on the side of the bed, then he kneels down, and it's so reminiscent of that night, the night the Darach tried to kill them all, that it steals Stiles' breath. Only this time, their roles are reversed. It's his dad taking care of him, slipping his shoes and socks off his feet—he hadn't taken the time to remove them when he got the room earlier, just faceplanted into the bed and passed the fuck out. A pin dropping would shatter the atmosphere, but Stiles and his dad are frozen, looking at each other, drinking in the differences two weeks apart have wrought in the other. Maybe the difference two _years_ have wrought, honestly. It's been that long since Stiles has let himself really look another person in the face, after all.

A part of him wants to flinch back, drop his gaze. He wants to hide away inside his own skin because he can't stop thinking of himself as a monster. But this is his dad. This is the man who held him through all the nightmares, soothed all the pain. This is the man who was warmth and _home_ when everything else was just the cold that radiated out of Stiles' center. Who's _still_ warmth and home for Stiles.

His dad's thumb rubs over the jut of bone at Stiles’ ankle, and sensation travels up Stiles’ leg to pool in his groin, thickening his cock. Stiles can't help flexing his fingers where they're braced on his thighs. He wants to reach out and touch his dad, run his fingers through hair touched by light streaks of gray. But his dad breaks the silence first

"Hey, kid. Why don't you take these off?" He flicks his fingers over the hem of Stiles' jeans. "They won't be very comfortable to sleep in."

Stiles nods, and stands up, slowly stripping the worn, dirty denims off. By the time he has them folded on the lone chair, he turns to see that his dad is down to his undershirt and boxers, and something inside him flips over. 

He's going to share a bed with his dad, a man he's been fantasizing about for almost half his life. Stiles reaches down and pulls the comforter off the pillows and down to the foot of the bed. It's too hot for more than the top sheet, even with the air conditioner running at full power. He slides into the bed and rests on his side facing his dad. He wants to be able to see him if he wakes in the middle of the night.

His dad, though, has other ideas. He manhandles Stiles until he's facing the other way, and then his dad's arm is secure around him, holding him tight. Letting him know he's safe. It's warm, and comforting, and Stiles closes his eyes without fear for the nightmares that have plagued him for the better part of a year. Stiles snuggles down, indulges in the heady feeling of being his dad's child again.

If he wriggles his ass a little until his dad grunts at him to go the fuck to sleep, well... He's still an asshole.

Senior year flies by in a blink of essays and exams and scholarship applications. He's early accepted into Berkeley, so that's a weight off his shoulders, and the supernatural baddies quiet down enough to let him get more research done for school than for life-saving shit. It's kind of an awesome break, to be honest. 

The horrible despair of the last year doesn't go away entirely, and Stiles will never be the same person he was two years ago, but some of the guilt lifts from his shoulders and he smiles more easily than he has been. He cracks jokes again just to see the relief in Scott's eyes. He teases Isaac and snarks at Derek, and it's not the same. It can't be. 

But it's something like healing. 

With that healing comes a return to things like twice a day self-love sessions. The stress of senior year makes that more important than ever, and Stiles sets aside time every day to do it. He drops hints for his dad, giving him the choice of whether or not to turn off the cameras that are still set up in Stiles’ room, and for a while he sticks to straight porn. Or, well, not totally _straight_ , because there's a lot of backdoor action going on in the vids he watches, but he stays far away from the file that has his dad's video on it.

For a while, anyway.

But just after his birthday, when midterms hit and SAT prep is killing him, he's been jerking it for twenty minutes and his 'normal' porn is doing nothing for him. He looks up at the camera that's pointed at his bed, bites his lip in consideration, then just shrugs and goes for it. 

He's eighteen now, a man in every sense of the word. He can vote. He can own property. The only thing he can't do is drink — legally, that is. But this? This is still taboo, still something illicit and only spoken of in whispers. No matter what they're showing on HBO this season, _no one_ condones incest.

Stiles knows that. He even understands it academically. He just doesn't give a fuck. 

He's been through too much, seen too many horrors, to judge himself for this. He _wants_ his dad. He's always wanted his dad, if he's being honest with himself — which he generally is, because trying to lie to himself is just stupid. He's earned a respite from judgment, he thinks, and his fingers go to the keyboard. 

He doesn't hesitate before scrolling over to the play button and clicking it.

His speakers are turned up, not so loud that anyone should be able to hear it outside his bedroom, but he doesn't know if the cameras record audio as well as video. He hopes they do, honestly, because the thought of his dad watching and _listening_ is enough to make him fully hard before he's even touched himself. A fresh squirt of slick into the palm of his hand, and he's ready to go.

On screen his dad is stroking himself slowly, eyes trained just to the left of the camera. Stiles scoots over, tries to imagine that his dad is looking at _him_. When it seems like they're staring at each other, his dick jumps in his hand just as his dad hisses through his teeth. It's a sound that's at once familiar and brand new. It's intimate and soft and close in the quiet of his room.

Stiles matches his strokes to his dad's, tugs on his balls when his dad does, feels his breathing adjust to match the harsh sounds he hears coming through the speakers. He comes just seconds before his dad does on the screen, but his dad's _I love you_ echoes through the room and soothes the still-jagged pieces of Stiles' soul.

~*~

He goes down for breakfast the next morning and notices the ruddy blush on his dad's cheeks. Sees how his dad avoids his eyes and jumps every time Stiles breathes a little too loudly. Stiles hides a smile in his shoulder.

No matter how many years it's been, seeing his dad all flushed and embarrassed is still one of the cutest fucking things ever. Especially since he knows exactly what put that color in his cheeks. 

Just because he feels like it, Stiles waits until he knows his dad is looking before he opens his mouth wide, licks over the bottom of his spoon obscenely, wraps his lips around it and sucks the yogurt off with a deep moan of appreciation. His dad's coffee cup shatters on the floor.

"Oh," Stiles says, blinking up as innocently as he can, "are you all right?"

"Yeah, just… fine. I'm fine." His dad's hands are shaking as he bends to pick up the large pieces of his cup.

Stiles grabs some paper towels and walks over, careful to avoid any tiny shards that might have scattered over the tile floor. He kneels slowly, blots at the spilled liquid, and waits until his dad turns back around from the trash can to peer up at him from under his lashes. 

He's got yogurt on his top lip. He might have put it there on purpose, maybe. Possibly. He knows what he must look like, kneeling there in front of his dad, who is just a few feet away, a thick white blob on his mouth. He waits until his dad has gone totally still, not even breathing, before he lets out a little breath and licks over his lip, scooping away the yogurt.

His dad makes a garbled noise and damn near sprints from the room.

Stiles just smiles and finishes cleaning up the coffee. It's only fair; after all, _he's_ responsible for this mess.

~*~

He watches the video every night that week, turning the volume up progressively louder until his speakers are at max volume on Wednesday night. Incidentally the night his dad is _not_ on shift when he goes to bed.

He leaves his door open three inches. He measured the gap. It's an invitation, but a coy one. He knows that if you stand at the right angle, you can see the reflection of his bed through his dresser mirror from a hidden spot in the hallway. He might have spent an hour or so rearranging his furniture to make sure of it. 

He won't be able to see his dad, but his dad will certainly be able to see him. If he wants.

Stiles really is an asshole.

He starts off nice and slow, but it's become habit by now, to time his strokes to those on the screen. He's really into it, his slicked-up fingers stroking and twisting and pulling in all the right ways. His mouth is open, gasping for air, when he hears a thump and a muffled gasp from the hallway. 

His eyes flutter closed, and he can feel the blood pulsing close to the surface because while he knows his dad has watched him in the past, he didn't _know_ those other times. He knows _now_ , can picture it in his mind's eye, can see the way his dad's staring eyes will catch what little light is there.

He hears familiar movement on the video and opens his eyes again to watch as his dad — the younger version of him, anyway — shoots off on camera. For the first time in memory, he doesn't immediately lose it at the sight. He can't. He's got an audience of his own to please.

The murmured, "I love you, too," though, is automatic, trips off his lips by rote, and then the video ends and he's left looking at a play icon. Pushing the laptop off his lap, he spreads his legs wide and settles back comfortably on his pillows, both hands now free to pleasure himself. More lube coats the hand not lazily jerking his cock, and he reaches down, circles his fingers slowly around his clenching hole, moaning softly at the petting. He tightens his fingers around his cock as he slides one finger up inside himself and a strangled whine breaks free.

Tossing his head on his pillow, he fucks himself with one finger while his hips jerk up into the tight clench of his fist. He's close, so fucking close, but he can't forget that he's being watched, and that added degree of illicitness keeps him buzzing along the edge without allowing him to fall. He's almost crying now, gasps turned to choked sobs of need, and his whole body is shaking, overworked muscles twitching.

The word _Dad_ is on the tip of his tongue but he bites it back again and again, not wanting to scare his dad away. Not now that he's got him so close.

With one last stab of his finger inside his ass, he manages to hit his prostate and that's it, that's the extra tiny bit of pleasure he needed to send him howling into orgasm. Under the sound of his own cries, he hears another, deeper moan, and his whole body spasms as a second orgasm blindsides him.

It's summer, three days after his graduation. He's been relentlessly teasing his father for months, but the man has a will of iron. Stiles is beginning to think it's unshakeable, or that he'll have to be the one to make the first move.

Not that he hasn't been making _all_ the moves to this point, but whatever.

The Bomb Pops—Spiderman-themed this year—make a dramatic return to the freezer, though Stiles only eats them when his dad is home. Of course, 'eats' isn't really the term he'd use to describe what he does to the ice pops. When his dad is watching, or even in the vicinity, he fellates those fuckers until the juice drips down his wrist, and then he licks it up, moaning softly about how good it tastes. Even after the bomb pop itself is gone, he sucks on the stick, getting every last tiny drop of flavor out before he sadly has to throw it away.

The Bomb Pops aren't the only weapon in his arsenal, either. He becomes much bolder that summer, knowing that his chances are dwindling with college looming in his very near future.

His hugs turn lingering. It's never a hardship because his dad gives the best hugs, pulls him tight against that broad chest and brushes a kiss against the side of his head like always. But this time it's Stiles hanging on, Stiles turning his head just enough for that kiss to land on the shell of his ear or his cheek. He drags in deep breaths of his dad's cologne before sliding his palms down his dad's back. He allows his fingers to flirt with the spot that crosses the line between back and ass before he lets go and steps back.

He brushes against his dad at every opportunity. If he were a werewolf, his dad would be _covered_ in his scent. Brief contact is no longer incidental. Stiles does everything with utmost precision. One night, he even plops himself right in his dad's lap. It only lasts about point-five seconds because his dad literally pushes him off onto the floor; the startled apology he gets in return is funny as hell, actually.

But after years of lusting after and alternately hiding his obsession from and teasing his father with his non-traditional desires, what finally tips the scales isn't anything spectacular. It's just a normal lazy day at Casa Stilinski; his dad's off work, the A/C is on the fritz again, and though Stiles is wearing less clothing than normal, he's not exactly walking around the place in the nude. He's got board shorts on and one of his thousands of graphic tees, and he's sitting at a respectable distance from his dad on the couch—because pressing all up against him like he's taken to doing is just not in the cards when it's almost eighty degrees inside their house. 

Miserable and sweaty is not the kind of hot he wants his dad thinking about when he's contemplating Stiles, okay?

The game's just turned over to the seventh inning, which always subliminally makes Stiles feel the need to stretch—kinda like when he sees someone yawn, he can't keep back a jaw-cracking one himself. This is a stretch to beat them all, though, because his whole body gets into it. His back arches, his toes point, he even wriggles his hips to get those lower-back muscles. And the noise that drags itself out of the bottom of his lungs is probably obscene, but god, that stretch was fantastic.

He's sitting back up, about to tug his shirt down from where it rode up his belly, when he hears it. There's a small, helpless noise from his dad which makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up and pay attention. Barely daring to breathe, Stiles cuts his eyes to the side to see that his dad is staring at his stomach, at the thin strip of skin that's showing between the hem of his t-shirt and the waistband of his shorts. 

Stiles is frozen, doesn't know what to do. Should he tug his shirt up a little more? Leave it there? Give another stretch for the hell of it? 

It's while he's contemplating his next move that his dad finally snaps. Sitting up, he throws the remote on the coffee table and leans over, pressing his mouth right to the thick line of hair that disappears under the waistband of Stiles’ shorts. A surprised moan bursts from Stiles, but he drops his hands into his dad's hair, tangles them up and knows that if his dad tries to stop now, he's not letting go without a fight. He's wanted this too much for too long to let either of them back out now. 

A sucking kiss to the pale, soft skin of his belly has Stiles fully hard so fast his head spins. He almost doesn't even know what to do now, how to proceed, because in all his wildest fantasies, he'd never dreamed anything like this. He'd thought it'd start with slow kisses, prolonged hugs, touching, something. Not his dad's mouth inches from the head of his now-throbbing dick, his tongue stroking over the coarse hair on his belly, his nose tickling at Stiles' sensitive belly button. 

When his dad finally stops licking and nuzzling at Stiles' belly and sits up, Stiles goes with him. He straddles his dad's lap, grinding down against a too-familiar dick he's never _really_ seen, until his dad is as hard as he is. 

They haven't even kissed yet, are just staring at each other while the television plays on in the background, bodies slowly undulating against each other as the temperature and hot flush of arousal combine to send a bead of sweat licking a path down Stiles' back. His dad's eyes are half-closed, his lips parted, and he's pushing his head into the grip of Stiles' fingers. His own hands are wrapped tight around Stiles' hips, thumbs digging into jutting bone while he guides Stiles in slow, rolling motions against him.

Stiles isn't one to blindly follow anyone else's lead. He's always pushed back. But in this, and maybe for the first time in his life, he's content to let his dad set the pace. It has a little to do with trust and love, but mostly it's because it feels _so much better_ once his dad takes over. Stiles' uncontrolled grinding from before is now a smooth roll that has their dicks in contact the whole time.

Plus, this way he doesn't have to think about anything. He can just stare down at his dad, watch the way his lips move wordlessly, shaping something that looks like Stiles' name as his pupils expand. There's just a thin ring of faded blue around black in them now, and Stiles wonders what his own look like. Are they slitted almost closed like his dad's or open wide in wonder? He can't concentrate enough to feel his own face at this point because the sensations crawling up from his groin has commandeered all of his attention.

Well, the attention that's not focused on his dad. The flush in his dad's cheeks is even better when it's from mutual arousal than from embarrassment or shame. His lips go shiny when his tongue swipes across them, then almost immediately dry again as his breath gusts in and out.

Stiles dips his head toward his dad's mouth, then is overset by a panicked sort of uncertainty. _Should_ he kiss him? Or should he let his dad set the pace here? Finally getting what he's wanted for so long has Stiles thrown for the world's largest loop. He knows five different ways to kill a malevolent pixie but he doesn't know how to tell when it's okay to kiss his own father.

"Stiles," his dad whispers, and closes the distance while Stiles is stuck in limbo. He grips the back of Stiles' head with a sure hand, the other still holding tight to Stiles' hip. There's nothing uncertain or hesitant about the way his mouth opens over Stiles'.

Neither of them close their eyes. It's like they both want this, their first kiss, to be approached with their eyes wide open, so neither of them can say that they didn't know what was happening. So that neither can deny they both wanted it. 

Stiles can't coordinate his hips and his mouth at the same time, he doesn't have the experience for that, so he just settles down in his dad's lap while they kiss. He takes his time, licks across his dad's lips, shivers when the tip of his dad's tongue skates over his bottom teeth. He's tasting him, they're tasting _each other_ , and it's nothing like he'd thought it would be. 

It's smooth and sensual, like they've been doing this for years. It's fingers biting into the meat of his ass and the rasp of hair under his fingertips. It's staring into his dad's faded blue eyes from inches away and seeing nothing but burning desire in them. There's no uncertainty there, no guilt or angst or anything he'd half-expected from this moment. There's just need and acceptance, and it takes his breath away.

Stiles breaks the kiss with a gasp of, "Dad," and then stills because he's not sure if that's okay. 

But his dad doesn't even flinch, just kisses along his neck, noses aside the collar of his t-shirt and licks at the sweat that's collected in the hollow of his throat. Maybe it's not a big deal, and maybe Stiles should leave it alone, but he finds he can't. He needs to poke and prod at this like he pokes and prods at everything in his life.

"Is that… okay?" he asks quietly.

"It's my name," his dad mutters against his collarbone, not even pretending not to know what Stiles is talking about. When Stiles doesn't say anything else, his dad sighs and pulls back, looks Stiles right in the eye when he says, "It's not a kink or anything, but you've been calling me Dad your whole life. If you were to call me anything else at this point, it'd be weird. So, yes, it's okay that you call me Dad."

"And… this?" Stiles wants to chew off his own tongue for that, but again, his dad surprises him.

"When you were little…younger…. Before, it was different. I looked it up, talked to a therapist, found out it's a way for kids to figure out things like sexuality and flirting in a safe environment. I was proud, I guess, that you felt that sort of easiness with me, even after your mom passed. Just to be clear, I didn't want you then. No matter how many lollipops you destroyed, you were a fourteen year old boy and no boy is attractive at fourteen."

Stiles laughs and buries his face against his dad's shoulder, nipping at the muscle there. "God, I was so obvious."

"Uh, son, I hate to point it out, but you're still pretty damn obvious."

 _Son._ The term, and the warm love it's said with, roll over Stiles and leave him squirming inside and out with the need to be even closer to his dad. It's not a kink or anything, but knowing that they still have that, that father-son relationship, even after everything that's happened here today, just makes Stiles a thousand times hotter than he was before they stopped to talk this out.

Stiles shudders all over and can't stop the hitching roll of his hips. He pushes back up, looks down at his dad, and says, "I want to suck you." Maybe it comes out matter-of-fact, but the need that claws through him isn't. And when his dad groans and drops his head back against the couch cushion, he knows he's not the only one affected here. Especially when his dad lifts his hips into Stiles' next grinding thrust.

"You first. Get up here," his dad says, applying upward pressure on Stiles' ass, letting him know he wants Stiles to kneel up so it's easier for his dad to drag his mouth over Stiles' hard cock through the thin material of his shorts. It steals Stiles' breath, makes a blurt of precome wet his boxers, and he's back to digging his fingers into his dad's hair.

"Fuck," he whispers, looking down and seeing the way his dad just rolls his entire face in Stiles' groin. He's not going to last long at all, and maybe that's why his dad wanted to go first. Because he knows Stiles is so fucking close to the edge.

Their hands meet in the middle, both of them scrabbling at the button and zipper on Stiles' shorts, their fingers tangling as they rush to push his shorts and boxers out of the way. And then Stiles' cock is just there, jutting out obscenely in the air between them, and his dad's short, quick breaths are puffing over the head, forcing beads of precome to bubble out of his slit until they're dripping in a near continuous line down his cock.

Stiles has to let go of his dad's hair or risk pulling great chunks of it out when his dad finally lowers his head and sucks the tip of Stiles' cock into his mouth. Instead he grabs onto the top of the couch, fingers squeezing so tight he can feel the staples that hold the fabric to the wooden frame. He can't stop a grunt of pleasure when his dad gives a hard suck and then slides further down his length, his fingers pressing into Stiles' bare ass, urging him to move.

He forces himself to thrust slowly, not wanting to gag his dad or otherwise do anything that might make this whole encounter end on a sour note. But he's close, has been close since his dad first put his mouth on him, and it's… it's so much. Almost too much, really, but here they are. His thrusts pick up the pace as his stomach tightens and balls draw up close to his body. They're still shallow, but he can't stop himself from almost jackrabbit-ing his hips, loving the hot, wet sweep of his dad's tongue over his slit and the pulling suction of his lips. 

He holds it together pretty remarkably, until his dad's fingers shift, his pinky finger glancing over Stiles' hole at the same time as he opens his eyes, locking them on Stiles'. And then it's all over, a grunt punching out of Stiles as he hunches over his dad, his whole body curling in on itself as he comes in thick spurts into his dad's mouth. He pulls away quickly, tries to make his numb fingers work enough to grab a few tissues from a box on the side table, but by the time he has one clutched in his fist, he turns back to see his dad licking up stray smears of come from his lips. 

Stiles' come. That apparently he swallowed. If Stiles hadn't _just_ come, he'd probably do it from that alone.

Instead he sort of flops his way off the couch, kneels up between his dad's splayed thighs, and paws at the material of his dad's pants until, with a knowing chuckle, his dad helps out. When he's finally got his dad's dick in his hand, he has to stop and just stare at it, catalogue the differences almost twenty years has made in the way it looks.

It's not much different, really. A bit thicker, heavier looking than it was on camera. But mostly it just looks fucking delicious, like something Stiles wants to get his mouth on right the fuck now. 

So he does.

It tastes like he'd expect. Musky, a bit salty from sweat, but overall like what his fingers taste like after he's been jacking off for a while. It's nothing particularly new, so Stiles just gets to it, sucks and licks, learns the weight on his tongue. He presses his lips to the places he's watched his dad handle a hundred times on the video, twists his head when as he pulls up, applies a little more suction around the head. 

His dad's hand is on his neck, guiding him. Fingers trace over the stretch of his lips, and his dad's voice fills the air, gritty as he says, "That's it, Stiles. Just like that. Suck a little harder, baby… ahh, yeah. So good. Fuck, Stiles…"

Stiles groans and swallows and tilts his head as much as he can, but finally he has to pull back, pull off, and look his dad in the eye when he says, "Fuck my mouth, Dad. Please?"

And that's apparently all it takes, because after that, his dad's hips are working in tandem with the bobbing of Stiles' head and there's _so much_ of him pistoning into Stiles' mouth. The head of his dad's dick bumps against the back of his throat every other thrust or so, and Stiles just _takes_ it. He's wanted this for too long to fight it in any way, even if it's just to find a better angle. But really, he revels in the way his dad's dick feels, sliding into his mouth. He glories in the small sounds it forces from him, the choking and cut off breaths. Loves the way it strangles his moans in his throat until all that can be heard in the room is his dad's harsh breathing and the wet sounds of himself gulping in breaths when he can.

He has no idea how long it goes on. He just knows he's got a bit of a kink in his neck from the angle and his knees are starting to ache in all the right ways when his dad's thrusts turn more frantic and his name spills from his dad's lips. He reaches up, slides his fingers between his dad's spread thighs, and trails them lightly over his dad's balls, weighing them, feeling them tighten up. 

He opens his throat, thinks he's ready for it when his dad finally unloads inside his mouth, but he's not. He swallows as much as he can—it's not pleasant but it's not the first time he's tasted Stilinski come—but more spills out his mouth than he thinks he swallowed, so he spends the next few minutes licking up his mess until his dad hisses and pushes him gently away. 

Stiles slumps back onto his heels, head resting against his dad's knee as he struggles to get his breath back. His dad's fingers card through his hair, settling him. Settling them both. 

Something feels off, slightly off-center, until Stiles says, "I love you."

It's like the video, but not, because this time, when his dad says it, he's saying it to _Stiles_. The warmth of happiness radiates through Stiles, and he relaxes into his dad's touch again, shivering as the roughness of his dad's fingers slide over his skin.

"Huh. Looks like we missed the end of the game," his dad says after a while, when they've both caught their breath and their heartbeats have steadied to normal.

Stiles hides a smile, then slides down onto his back on the floor. "Eh, there'll be another one tomorrow night."

"Like you'll let me watch that one," his dad snorts. 

Stiles grins up at his dad, waggling his eyebrows even as relief bursts through him. That's as good as a promise that they'll be doing this again. _Soon_

His dad rolls his eyes at Stiles' ridiculousness, then nudges Stiles in the side with his foot and says, "I love you, kid, but I have to tell you right now that there's not going to be any cuddling. It's so hot in here the hairs on my ass are sweating. Cuddling will have to wait until the A/C's fixed."

"Oh thank god," Stiles moans, and starfishes out on the floor where the carpet feels scratchy but sort of cool against his skin. "I love you too, old man, but we are so on the same page there." He closes his eyes, listens to the sportscasters talk about the end of the game they missed—their beloved Mets won, woo hoo—and smiles softly when he feels his dad's foot brush against his ankle. 

Eventually he'll get up, pull his shorts back up over his ass, and go stick his head in the freezer or something while his dad orders dinner, but for now, he's totally content to just lie here, reveling in the moment. 

Because the moment is made up of this: the two of them together, his foot hooked around his dad's, no worries or stress. This isn't the end of a video with nothing but a play icon to remind him that it's over. This is Stiles and his dad starting something. Together.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic grew out of a conversation with [Badwolfbadwolff](http://badwolfbadwolff.tumblr.com), so you should blame it on her.
> 
> Also, I'm on the tumblr too: [Here I am!](http://eeyore9990.tumblr.com)


End file.
